


The Subsistence Method

by night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Bruises, Comeplay, Facials, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gets the beat down on a job; Eames gets a facial and resists returning the favor onto Arthur's bruised face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Subsistence Method

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asunder/gifts).



> This story was originally started for wonderful Amy's [Facial Porn Fest](http://asunder.dreamwidth.org/2213.html) more than a month ago. Sorry it took so long, Amy, and thanks for hosting a fest. I'm sorry I'm so freakin' slow at life.

~*~

“The hunting and gathering,” announces Arthur, flourishing a dark black bottle as he walks through the door, “was a success.”

“Strenuous labor, hunting and gathering is.” Eames drags his feet off the small kitchen table in their apartment-of-the-month, paid-up in cash until tomorrow. The feeble lights in the entrance way are kind to Arthur, but Eames can still make out the numerous bruises that cover one side of his face. The sick-yellow and the burst-vessel red tell an unkind story.

“Very,” agrees Arthur, walking to the squat cabinet in the corner. A metal opener follows, flying through the air and clattering over the wood of the table to scatter off into Eames’ waiting hand. It’s one of the only kitchen implements they bothered to buy and easily the most used in the last month.

“Someones had a few tips of the bottle already, I see,” says Eames, standing and walking over to Arthur, sliding fingers into the belt loops of Arthur’s dark jeans and pulling him close. Eames is careful to nose at the right side of Arthur’s face, not willing to strain the raw skin of Arthur’s left. 

Four days ago, their chemist for this shit job heard men coming up the stairs. There had been two, and they’d been armed only with knuckle sheaves and knives. The chemist should have stayed to fight, or at least pulled the PASIV lines on his way out. Instead he scurried away, leaving the dreamer closest to the door -- which had been Arthur, per usual -- to take the brunt of the two men sent by their double-crossing, soon-to-be-dead employer. The two grunts had accidentally tipped the extractor, Gareth, out of his chair, waking him abruptly. If Gareth had surfaced even ten seconds later, Arthur would have been dead. As it happened, Gareth, formerly of the Australian Special Forces, had shot one man and cracked open the other’s skull on a teak table.

(Gareth doesn’t know it yet, but a few problems that he has been having might just disappear, if Eames has anything to say about it.) 

Arthur sighs. “A few beers. Needed to wind down.”

“Yes, needed to wind down before you went out wine hunting,” says Eames dryly, curving close to kiss the side of Arthur’s nose from behind. 

“Hunting and gathering,” Arthur corrects, leaning back to make his head, his face, his lips easier to reach. “And yes, I did.” 

Eames can’t help taking a small kiss from Arthur. Their lips are both slightly chapped from the cold, dry atmosphere, but Arthur’s still feel like a fingerprint beneath Eames’ mouth, a tingling pattern Eames would know anywhere. Arthur is warm and loose as he always is when drunk, and Eames bites his mouth gently, sighing when they break. 

Pressing himself back, Arthur molds himself against Eames’ body and the gradually thickening line of Eames’ prick, rubbing just a bit.

“You want to open that bottle now?” asks Eames, flicking a glance towards the table even as he lets his body push forward into Arthur’s back. 

In Eames’ arms, Arthur turns, mimicking Eames’ earlier position by sliding his fingers into Eames’ belt loops and pulling him forward till their mouths touch when he speaks. 

“Maybe later,” he whispers, the beer smell on his breath -- something deep and hoppy -- somehow enticing, reaching down into Eames. That’s when Arthur hooks a finger into Eames’ belt and starts to undo it, the leather sliding out from under his fingers with a _snick_ , the zipper of Eames’ trousers coming down tooth by tooth till they sag even more --

Truthfully, Eames feels like he’s had a few tips of the bottle, too. 

But there’s something he’s forgetting, in this smooth sequence of events, his pants lowered, his shoes toed off, Arthur playing with the band of his boxers -- it doesn’t hit Eames till Arthur leans back to look down, and the light from the bare bulb at the front of the hall glances off Arthur’s face, yellow and red and blue, bruises layered on bruises. 

Eames stops Arthur with a hand on Arthur’s wrist. 

“Bed,” he says, already tugging Arthur back to the cramped, square room.

It’s a testament to how tipsy Arthur is that he goes without any fight, stumbling after Eames’ rushed steps. Arthur almost trips on an open bag on the floor, little vials clinking together in the side pockets before he rights himself, kicking the strap off his leather shoe. 

The room is tiny, the bed only a double when Eames is used to a hotel king, but it’ll serve well enough. 

“Eames, what’re you -- ” starts Arthur, one hand held in Eames’ and one tucked in Eames’ boxers. 

“Get on the bed,” urges Eames, settling Arthur down on the side, his legs hanging off. It’s a tall one, so Arthur’s toes only skim the wood floor, his feet pointed down in an attempt at grounding himself. Visibly giving up on Eames, Arthur lets himself be laid down on his back, throwing his arms out to curl around a pillow on the bed. He’s in a short-sleeve t-shirt, and the muscles of his arm bunch as he draws them taut, digging his fingers into the fabric of the pillowcase -- Eames wants to jump onto the bed and lick up that line, from shoulder to elbow to wrist till he meets Arthur’s strong hands, but he resists: there’s been a change in plans. 

Arthur’s dark jeans are tight enough that he forwent a belt today, and Eames sees a wet spot right above waist of his jeans, no bigger than a five-pence coin, and, Christ -- 

“You’re not wearing any -- ,” says Eames, unable to complete the sentence because he’s too busy cursing Arthur in his head, the bastard, the absolute bastard.

“Nope,” says Arthur, almost chirping the word out. His arms drag the pillow beneath his head as he stares up at the ceiling, slight smile on his face. The shitty maroon blinds on the window let in a sliver of the fading pale light from outside, just enough for Eames to watch Arthur wince when his smile grows too wide. 

Eames _hmms_ and tugs at Arthur’s jeans. “You went out out hunting and foraging naked under these, did you?” 

“I did,” replies Arthur, closing his eyes and kicking out a leg that Eames catches at his own peril. 

“That just won’t do.” Eames puts a hand on the foot he’s captured, kneading it slowly and watching from below as he moves up and Arthur’s muscles unclench one-by-one, from the bottom of his foot to his calf to his thigh. Eames reaches the top of Arthur’s jeans at last, Arthur floating away on the sheets, eyes at half-mast and barely registering what Eames is doing. 

“Shouldn’t go out like this,” says Eames, chiding, his breath skimming over the bottom of Arthur’s t-shirt. The wet spot from before has grown bigger, a ten-pencer now, and Eames draws down Arthur’s jeans a centimetre at a time, pulling them over Arthur’s hard cock to leave them tangling his legs, unable to spread them but also unable to move without Eames’ say-so. 

“Why not?” asks Arthur, still looking up, voice drifting.

Eames looks up Arthur’s body from the floor of the bedroom, Arthur’s bared legs forced together by his jeans, his cock wet at the tip, obviously not the product of the few minutes they’ve been at this. He’s so trusting, letting Eames tangle him up and pin him down to the bed, so trusting that he doesn’t even bother to glance down at Eames below him. Eames lets his hands rise on Arthur’s body: feet to calves to thighs, till they’re framing Arthur’s beautiful cock. 

“Because,” says Eames, levering himself up on his knees so that he can see Arthur’s face, eyes closed and hand drawn over his forehead in some sort of repose. “This belongs to us.” 

At that Arthur leaves his eyes closed but quirks an eyebrow up. “My dick does not belong to you.”

Eames _hmm_ s, letting Arthur keep both of his delusions. “You’ve been naughty today, though, haven’t you.” Eames runs one finger on the underside of Arthur’s cock, gathering slick at the top and moving down to the base. Arthur shivers beneath him, biting his lip, smiling. “You got this wet just from being starkers?”

“No,” says Arthur on a moan, finally opening his eyes. “I was in the cab, and I just started thinking.” 

“Hunting, gathering, thinking.” Eames can’t help nudging Arthur’s balls, or slipping a finger down to gently rub at Arthur’s hole in a little promise for later, when he’ll open Arthur up and fuck in. “Dangerous activities, all.” 

“Jesus, if I let you decide what I could do I’d never leave the house.” 

Eames doesn’t reply, too worried at his own rather inappropriate reaction to Arthur’s complaint, for Eames agrees wholeheartedly at that moment -- especially when he sees Arthur’s face, one cheek bulging and the small, precisely stitched cut arching across his temple. Most of the time Eames isn’t this chest-beating Cro-Magnon who wants to take Arthur into a cave and tie him up there, but there’s a part of Eames (and it’s not just his prick, cheers) that _does_ want to board up Arthur in a room, sit outside it, and growl at passersby. Even the thought of a partner that would put up with such custodial tendencies galls Eames, however, and he takes a brief moment of satisfaction in Arthur’s obstinate belief in his own indestructibility.

Thus, this rare vulnerability Arthur lays unthinkingly at Eames’ feet stokes in Eames the urge to grab a handgun and sit over Arthur until he falls asleep. Eames knows to fight it back, of course, as Arthur disdains frailty, especially when discovered lurking in the cores of those closest to him. Eames bites at Arthur's thigh ungently to remind them both of his teeth, to put Arthur off the scent of weakness. Eames cannot underestimate him – even drunk and spilled out onto the sheets as he is.

“Eames?” hears Eames from his position at Arthur's feet, Arthur’s voice rougher than expected.

Obviously no more thinking will be allowed. Eames answers with action, nudging at the base of Arthur’s cock with his nose and exhaling against him hotly, running his calloused hands from Arthur's scarred knees to his thighs once more. Arthur shivers, flesh filled for one moment with too much energy for his skin to contain, limbs jerking erratically as Eames traces the broad vein on the underside of Arthur's cock with his tongue.

“Do it,” says Arthur on an exhale, hips pulsing upwards ineffectually, his jeans still constraining his legs.

As soon as Eames puts his lips on the tip of Arthur, just flicking his tongue out once or twice, Arthur calms again. The muscles in his thighs and calves go lax, and when Eames chances a glance up, it is obvious Arthur is riding the alcohol in his system, chewing his bottom lip and staring through half-open eyes at the ceiling. Eames keeps his eyes trained up, only taking the first few inches in so that he can concentrate on Arthur's face, trying to see what Arthur is muttering every few seconds as he begins to shift restlessly on the bed.

Eames closes his eyes and devotes himself, flattening his tongue out and sliding a few more inches into his mouth until Arthur's cock knocks against the back of his throat. Arthur moans, then bucks as much as he can, choking Eames for a brief second, and Eames pulls off. He puts his hands on top of Arthur's thighs and forces him to the bed, Arthur's flesh bulging from Eames' grip. Eames blows a stream of air over his own spit, and Arthur moans, trying to roll his body up or away. 

The blood beneath Arthur's skin flees from the pressure Eames puts on it, the area turning a mottled red and white not unlike Arthur's face. As soon as he's thought that, Eames loosens his grip, bones in his hands creaking with the sudden release.

As if finally noticing that his cock is no longer getting sucked, Arthur lazily raises up onto one elbow. Then, sounding a mix of intrigued and exasperated, he asks, “You gonna make me do this myself?”

Crouched at Arthur’s feet, Eames kisses the head of Arthur’s cock. “So lazy,” he says, chiding.

Arthur at last deigns to sit up, eyes clouded with arousal and inebriation, and takes a moment to stare at Eames. Smoothing his face out to something placid and uncaring, Eames lets his tongue dip down to Arthur’s balls, then drags it back up to his head. Eames once preferred a woman under his tongue, their taste infinitely more pleasing than the cloying, too-salty musk of men; he can’t remember exactly when that changed.

“Fine.” Arthur sighs, and puts a hand on himself, careful to keep the head of his cock on the flat of Eames' tongue. He drags it over Eames's tastebuds, and from below Eames watches as Arthur swallows once, his mouth falling open as he slowly jerks himself off. Every movement of his arm jostles Eames onto his heels, so Arthur slides the hand not on his cock around the back of Eames' head. He doesn't hold, only stabilizing, his fingers running through Eames' sweat-wet hair. A shudder likewise runs through Eames, the room going at once cool.

“Yeah,” says Arthur on the end of a groan, eyes unwavering from Eames' face. Arthur bites his lip then hisses in pain; his teeth have pulled the broken and bruised skin on the left side of his face taut, making his cheek look like a child's finger-painting, red and blue patches layered on top of each other with no finesse. 

Flicking his tongue out, Eames watches Arthur’s face relax back into a lazy kind of pleasure. 

“Your mouth,” says Arthur, gasping, increasing the speed of his hand. Arthur’s cock leaves the pad of Eames’ mouth at last, leaving a dot of precome behind that connects Eames’ tongue and the head of Arthur’s cock in a glistening line. “Shit, Eames, close your eyes.” 

Feeling contrary, Eames keeps his gaze on Arthur as long as his body will allow, right up until the first shot of Arthur’s come is splashing half into his mouth, half up his stubbled cheek, forcing him back on his heels. Done with his vicious tugging, Arthur wrings the last of his orgasm out of himself onto Eames’ waiting tongue, where it pools, overflowing Eames’ tongue to slide both down his throat and over his bottom lip. 

Arthur’s eyes flutter shut and he lets go of Eames’ head in favor of sprawling out on the bed in the overwhelming lassitude that always follows his orgasms, limbs akimbo but uncaring. His head starts to tilt to the left, putting the scratchy sheets against his marked up face, and Arthur hisses in pain again, rolling to the other side. 

Eames climbs onto the bed, hard cock bobbing out a little ridiculously between his legs and Arthur’s come still splashed over his lips and cheek.

Managing to open his eyes, Arthur looks at Eames with a small smile and offers his face up. “Going to return the favor?” 

The cold light streams through the window in fractured patterns, hitting Arthur’s brow at strange angles and making his bruises starker, the outline of his head becoming even more clear, more fragile.

“Perhaps not the best notion,” admits Eames after a beat, though he dearly wants to come all over Arthur’s face, bruised or no. 

Taking one of Eames’ hands, Arthur rubs it over the fuzz of short hairs on his stomach, tempting Eames to dip a finger into his belly button. Eames doesn’t resist. 

“C’mon,” says Arthur, almost slurring his words in exhaustion or inebriation. He sends Eames a wry smile. “Since ‘m too lazy to do anything.” 

Arthur’s abdominals are crafted from unflagging work, hours spent sweating and panting every week in gyms or on gritty streets in random cities. Under Eames’ fingers they seem hard and unforgiving, but against his prick the skin covering them feels soft and sweet. Arthur watches with hooded eyes as Eames rubs himself off against the curling hairs below Arthur’s belly button, his hips stutter-dragging along Arthur’s sweaty flesh. 

When he comes, Eames’ body curves over Arthur’s, pushing his prick across Arthur’s skin, naturally ending up nestled in the middle of Arthur’s stomach. Some of Eames’ come lands on the bed sheets and Arthur’s side, but the majority stays right where Eames directed it: the curve of Arthur’s belly button, a perfect oval filled to the brim with Eames. Just one breath from Arthur and it easily overflows, running down Arthur’s stomach to trickle over his fuzz, slowly finding its way down Arthur’s now-soft cock. 

Unimpressed, Arthur looks down his own chest to his dirtied stomach. “Really?”

“You came on my face,” replies Eames in defense, wiping at the drying come covering one of his eyebrows. He brushes at it and it flakes off onto Arthur’s stomach like a shower of snow. 

In exasperation Arthur sighs and vaults himself from the bed in an impressive show of sudden energy. He walks out the door, presumably to get a glass of water for them both. Eames hears him stop inside the living room, then the _clink_ of glass vials against each other once more as Arthur must poke at them with his bare foot. Eames winces. 

Arthur returns, bottle of dark wine wrapped in one hand. Offhandedly he asks, “So, what’re the chemist’s things doing here? You think killing him was a good idea?”

Just as blase, Eames shrugs. The arse hadn’t exactly been hard to find, though he’d almost given Eames a fight before dying like he deserved. In retaliation Eames asks, “What’re you doing with that wine? You think that’s a good idea?”

Arthur takes one last sip, naked and standing close to the bed, Eames’ come dripping down his stomach and his bruised face eerie in the half-light of the borrowed room. He sets his gaze on Eames, and the bottle onto a nearby table. 

“Just enjoying the fruits of my hunting and gathering,” he says, flicking his tongue at the bruised side of his lips, licking the dark purple stain of wine away to reveal the dark purple of bruise.

Eames levers up from the bed and walks to Arthur, taking a hand and guiding Arthur’s face to his own for a kiss, for the first time not wary of Arthur’s hurts, kissing him as if they don’t exist. Arthur threads his fingers through Eames’ mussed hair, holding him savagely close and giving just as good as Eames does. They break apart panting, though not from arousal. 

“Dangerous business, that is,” says Eames into the heated gap between their bodies, trying for rough and failing. 

Arthur smirks, bold. “Figured you of all people could appreciate that.”

Returning to his former gentleness when kissing Arthur’s sore mouth, Eames strokes back Arthur’s sweaty hair, tucking it behind Arthur’s ear with a single, light finger.

Yeah. Eames can appreciate that.

~*~


End file.
